New Yorker - Humor - Anti-Aging Secrets of the Mega-Rich

“How old would you guess I am? No need to say it out loud, just picture the number in your head. Now take that number (I’m no mind reader, but it’s fifty-nine), bump it up by a college sophomore, and you’ve got my true chronological age: seventy-eight. Shocked? Of course you are. These sure don’t look like a septuagenarian’s earlobes: zero droop, no unsightly hair. I’m not too humble to say it—you might be looking at the youngest “old man” on God’s big blue orb. And it’s all thanks to technology that you’ll learn…”

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Love it…

I hope you enjoyed today’s Longevity Lunch of 2.5 ounces of low-oxygen air and a high-altitude gooseberry. Now that you’ve super-activated your spine methyl, it’s time to get to the dilemma that has plagued philosophers for centuries: Why should man be cursed to age and decay, while his money remains immortal? Well, many high-net-worth visionaries have been seeking the answer, and they’ve found it in Prolongitek.


Give yourselves a round of applause. No hard claps, just finger taps-- you don’t want to end up with workman’s knuckle.

Pretty good stuff.